Wesley didn’t move. He looked asleep. “Freeman, I’m not arguin’ that,” he said defensively.
“Well, let’s vow.”
“Don’t need to,” Wesley replied. “We know what we got to do.”
“Wes,” R. J. warned, “we ought to vow.”
Wesley turned on his side, picked up a pine needle and began to braid it. That was always a signal he was thinking.
“I’ll tell you what,” Wesley finally said. “Let’s have a hearing if anybody gets to bein’ buddy-buddy with them. Some of the little kids just don’t know what they doin’.”
“All right,” R. J. quickly agreed. “Suits me.” R. J. liked the idea of a kangaroo court. That made it dramatic.
“Everybody agree?” asked R. J.
Everyone nodded.
“No playing around with them,” I emphasized. “No—uh…”
“What’s the matter, Colin?” Freeman asked.
“Uh—nothin’. Nothin’. I’m agreeing, that’s all.”
Megan. That meant I would have to summon all my cunning, employ every instinct I had, not be caught with Megan. These were my friends and Wesley was my brother. But Megan—Megan belonged to another me. She gave me Three Musketeers candy bars and I drew her pictures of dogs.
“You wait,” Wesley said slowly. “You wait. Something’s gonna break for us.”
*
At the exact moment we were sealing our strategy in the High Council session of a Sunday afternoon, Alvin Bond was discovering The Secret. We did not know it, but Alvin Bond and The Secret would be Wesley’s “something” that broke for us. It would happen the following day, on Monday, and it would work because Alvin would become the most unlikely hero in the history of Emery Junior High School.
Alvin Bond was an Our Sider, geographically and by heritage, but he never quite belonged to the inner circle of rule and example. Alvin was like a leftover thought in a conversation, something you meant to say but didn’t and when you remembered it, the conversation was over. It was partly because he lived on the Harrison side of Highway 17 and the rest of us lived on the Goldmine side. And it was partly because he was sixteen years old and only a ninth grader. Alvin had failed the fourth, the sixth, and the eighth grades—not because he was dumb, but because his teachers did not understand his nature.
Alvin was shy, shy in a thin, emaciated way that described him emotionally as well as physically. He was at least five feet, ten inches tall and his arms were three inches longer than those of anyone in Emery. He weighed, probably, one hundred and twenty pounds, and the way he stood, shoulders pointed, hands folded in front, he looked like a praying mantis. During all his years at Emery, Alvin had stayed to himself. If he had any friends, none of us knew it, though everyone from Our Side had a kind feeling for him. Alvin was all right, as far as we knew.
We had even become accustomed to watching Alvin walk backward. Alvin walked backward all the time. Even when we lined up to march into the auditorium for Friday assembly, Alvin walked backward. And he never spoke. Never. There was a story that he had once talked during an arithmetic lesson in the seventh grade, asking Old Lady Blackwall if he could go use the toilet. But that flood of rhetoric was followed by a two-year silence. Some of the Highway 17 Gang would occasionally kid Alvin about the cat’s having his tongue and Alvin would stare them down with a contemptuous, never-blinking gaze. I once heard Dupree whisper, “That boy’s the champion stare-downer of all time.”
Staring people down used to be a test of character in Emery.
*
It was recess on Monday, and we were working out for a softball game against Airline. It was a day of high-pitched chatter, the ripe swat of a Louisville Slugger against a bruised Spalding practice ball, the “Attay, babe! Attay, babe!” compliments for a perfectly fielded grounder, and the grand posing of swinging three bats in the on-deck circle. We were not a great softball team, but when we worked out we looked able enough.
And during this workout, Alvin slipped up to Freeman in a kind of backward shuffle and said, “I can throw a curve.”
Freeman almost fainted. The workout chatter died to a funeral quiet. Alvin Bond had spoken. After two years, from needing to use the toilet in the seventh grade to a workout for a softball game with Airline, Alvin Bond had finally spoken.
“What’d you say, Alvin?” asked Freeman.
“Uh—I—I can, well, throw a curve.”
“With a softball?”
“Uh—er—uh-huh.” Alvin cleared his throat. He had overworked his voice. “Uh—with anything.”
“Good Lord, he talks,” Dupree exclaimed. “What did you say, boy?”
Freeman whirled toward Dupree. “Shuttup,” he snapped.
Alvin twisted his head, exercising the vocal cords in his neck. He was embarrassed. “I can throw a curve, that’s all,” he said timidly.
“If you can throw one, I want to see it,” Freeman said, handing Alvin the ball.
Alvin held the ball in both hands, tucked his head and tried to drag a sound out of his throat.
“Go on, Alvin, ol’ boy, you can do it,” coaxed Freeman.
The team gathered around Freeman, who squatted behind home plate.
“Go on, Alvin.”
“Yeah, boy, c’mon.”
“Attay, babe, Alvin.”
“C’mon, boy. You can do it.”
The encouragement was coming from everyone, including members of the Highway 17 Gang. Dupree scowled, but he knew to keep quiet.
Alvin inched his way toward the pitching mound, twitching and trying to hide behind himself. At the mound, he hesitated and took five long steps backward, toward second base.
“Whatcha doin’, Alvin?” yelled Freeman.
Alvin tried to explain with his hands, but he looked like a spastic in a semaphore contest. “Too close,” he finally called.
“You gonna throw from out there?”
Alvin nodded, his head bobbing awkwardly on the hinge of a foot-long neck. “Where you supposed to be, throwin’ baseball-like,” he answered.
Dupree laughed. “You some kind of expert on baseball?” he said.
“Shuttup, Dupree.” It was Sonny, Dupree’s buddy.
But Alvin had heard Dupree’s sass. He dropped his head for a long moment and plowed at the ground with the toe of his shoe.
“You gonna plant cotton out there, boy?” razzed Dupree.
“Shuttup, Dupree,” Sonny repeated.
“C’mon, Alvin. Anytime you ready, let rip,” Freeman called.
Alvin fidgeted with his fingers on the softball, turned his back to Freeman and went into his windup, a grotesquely funny contortion of arms and legs. He whipped suddenly around and the ball hummed like a faraway airplane. Three feet from a direct path to Freeman’s glove, it snapped left and Freeman missed catching it by two feet. The ball hit the ground, skipped once and struck Dupree in his stomach and Dupree collapsed.
“I’ll be,” Freeman muttered in disbelief. “He did it.”
Alvin had actually thrown a curve. None of us had ever before seen a curve, and Alvin, backward-walking, never-talking Alvin, had thrown a curve that deserved to be bronzed and kept forever.
We were humbled by what we had seen. Dupree wallowed in the dirt, gasping for air, but no one moved to help him, not even Sonny.
“I can’t believe it,” exclaimed Freeman, leading us to Alvin. “Hey, Alvin. How’d you do it?”
We were in a circle around Alvin. He pulled at his pants, kicked at a clod of dirt, and looked away toward the railroad track. Finally, he said, “The Secret. My daddy taught me The Secret.”
“What’s The Secret, Alvin?” asked Freeman eagerly.
“Uh—it’s a—uh—secret.”
“Well, yeah.” Freeman laughed. “I reckon it would be. When’d you learn it, Alvin?”
Alvin looked at Freeman, then looked away. “Yesterday.”
“Can you throw a curve underhanded, Alvin?” asked Wesley.
“Uh—I guess.?
??
“Sure would be good if you could pitch softball for us,” Wesley suggested.
Freeman agreed. “That’s the truth. What’d y’all think, boys?”
“Attay, babe, Alvin.”
“Attay, babe, boy.”
Alvin smiled and blushed. I had never seen Alvin smile. He even had skinny teeth.
It was symbolic, in a pleasing way, that Dupree had been cut down by Alvin Bond’s curve. Alvin captured the fancy of every boy in school and his new leadership on the mound inspired a unity between Our Side and the Highway 17 Gang. It was a cautious, guarded unity and it did not spill over into our social behavior, but it was real enough when we performed battle with Airline and Goldmine and Harrison and the other junior high schools in our area. Alvin could throw a rising underhand curve, and he had amazing speed and control. As an added attraction, Alvin was persuaded to offer a demonstration of his ability with a baseball after each at-home softball game. He was so unbelievable with a baseball he became a community celebrity within two weeks and farmers would actually quit plowing to watch him pitch. William Pruitte, who had lost a leg in World War II and returned to Emery to become the only wooden-legged umpire of organized baseball in America, was so impressed by Alvin he began to make plans for Alvin to pitch for the Harrison Hornets, a Sunday afternoon team of men who were part of a five-county amateur league. William said Alvin was the greatest baseball pitcher he had ever seen in Georgia, and Alvin had never pitched a game.
“Don’t matter,” William declared. “You’ll see.”
Alvin’s wondrous talent gave Our Side a hero, and an improved image. We quickly included him in every new ground decision.
We encouraged him to talk, applauded his concentration in learning to walk sideways, and we never stopped talking about The Secret. To us, The Secret was as perplexing as the formula for Coca-Cola. And that is the way Alvin liked it. Nothing could pry The Secret from Alvin, not even a crowbar.
“No need to guess,” Alvin advised us. “You could look at me throw a million times and you’d never see it.”
Alvin was rapidly nudging his way into adulthood, yet he still honored Wesley’s leadership. Alvin had been in the fight, swatting anyone who stumbled in his direction, and he had heard Wesley’s challenge of Dewitt Hollister and the entire Highway 17 Gang, and he knew he would never do anything to match that courage. Besides, Alvin thought of the REA as a miracle and Wesley was someone who could peer in the haze of Time Unknown and describe sensations of things to come that made our nerves freeze with anticipation. Alvin used to say, again and again, “My mama’s gonna love it when the REA comes.”
In small, incomplete ways, Alvin’s presence enabled us to intrude on the dominance of the Highway 17 Gang in Emery. We knew we were about to step into their world, yet we insisted on keeping our identity. There were days when Sonny, or Wayne, or Ted and Ed, or others, made guarded suggestions about joining us for weekend games, but Dupree would impose his influence and his straying troops would fall back into their places, whimpering for forgiveness.
The restrained stand-off between our two societies was orderly and almost lasted to the end of the school term.
Almost.
Two days before school ended in spring of 1947, Wesley’s year, Our Side suffered an unspeakable horror: my relationship with Megan became an embarrassing public spectacle.
*
“Megan Priest, bring that piece of paper to me, young lady.” It was Old Lady Blackwall. Her buzzard’s eyes danced with glee, and her buzzard’s voice squawked its claim on the small folded note in Megan’s hand. Megan’s body convulsed with the fear of having been discovered. She could not move.
“Megan Priest. Do you hear me, young lady? Bring that piece of paper to me. Now.”
I did not like the way Old Lady Blackwall yelled at Megan. If she made Megan cry, I silently vowed, I would put nails under her car tires.
“Megan.”
Megan slipped slowly, fearfully, out of her desk. Her hand clutched the note. She started toward Old Lady Blackwall, paused and turned quickly to look at me.
Dear God in Holy Heaven, I thought. It can’t be. It can’t be.
“So, what’s this, Miss Megan?” Old Lady Blackwall said. “We don’t have passing notes in this room, young lady. Let me have it.”
“I—I wasn’t—goin’—goin’ to pass it…”
“Don’t tell me what you were and weren’t going to do, young lady. I know all about note-writers, I do. Let me have it.”
Megan surrendered the note and started easing back to her desk. The entire class listened and watched.
“Stay. Stay right where you are,” Old Lady Blackwall ordered.
“Yes’m,” Megan whispered.
Paul Tully giggled and I made a quick note to kick his tail after school, or knock out another tooth.
Old Lady Blackwall unfolded the note with sickening ceremony, mocking each crease Megan had pressed into the paper. She read to herself with a smiling, conquering expression, mouthing the words.
“Well, well, well,” she finally said. “It seems we have a little romance going on right here in our room at Emery Junior High Schools…”
I thought: O Holy Father, strike her dumb and I will go to revival every night this year.
“And you’d never guess between who…”
Maybe I should fake a heart attack, I thought. Roll over and fall out right here on the floor.
“Well, of course, you must expect little Megan here is one of the parties, unless, of course, she’s passing along a note for one of her friends…”
Yes. Yes. Yes. O God, if you love me, please let that be it.
“Is that it, Megan?”
Megan shook her head and whispered, “No’m.”
“Well, I suggest that the entire class should share in this rare experience. Why don’t you return to your seat, Megan, and I’ll share your, ah, lovely thoughts with the rest of the class.”
Megan retreated to her seat. She was crushed, totally humiliated. She managed to peek at me as she turned to sit, and I knew what to expect.
Old Lady Blackwall took her position dead-center in front of the class. She cleared her throat, adjusted her glasses, and began to read in a voice of great pleasure.
“‘School will be out in two days and I know I shouldn’t do this, but I just had to write you a letter to tell you I’ll miss you this summer. Maybe I’ll get a chance to see you when you come to the cotton gin with your daddy. I’ll watch for your wagon…’”
Old Lady Blackwall looked up from the letter and smiled. She wanted Megan to feel every knife blow of her insult; Old Lady Blackwall wanted bloodless blood, a soundless scream for mercy.
“‘I hope you didn’t think I was pushing myself on you,’” Old Lady Blackwall continued, pronouncing each word with severe emphasis. “‘And I want you to know I’ve kept every picture you’ve drawn for me, and will always keep them for as long as I live. Maybe you’ll draw some for me this summer and I can get them if I see you at the cotton gin.’”
I could feel a thousand eyes turn toward me. Megan stared at her desk and Old Lady Blackwall turned the dagger in my heart: “And it’s signed, ‘Megan.’ Now isn’t that sweet? Pictures? Who do we know who draws pictures?” She looked straight at me. Dupree laughed aloud. Sonny and Wayne buried their faces in their arms and giggled. No one from Our Side stirred to stop their taunting.
“Colin…” The sound of my name from Old Lady Blackwall exploded in my temples and my bravery shattered like fine crystal being dropped. “Colin, could it be you that this letter is meant for?”
Ten thousand eyes hated me. A judge with a skull face laughed at me from a high, black podium. A gargoylish hunchback stood beside a hangman’s noose and motioned for me with long, dirty fingers. Wesley stood before St. Peter and begged for my admittance into heaven. “He told the truth and they killed him just the same,” Wesley was saying.
“Colin?”
“Me? No’m,” I lie
d. “Can’t be me. I can’t draw a straight line with a ruler.”
“Well, now, that’s odd,” Old Lady Blackwall insisted. “Just last week, Mrs. Simmons was telling us how proud she was of your artistic ability. She even showed us some of the examples of your work and I agreed with her. You’re quite talented, indeed. Especially drawing dogs.”
A million mouths spit at me. Two giants held my hands as midgets drove needles under my fingernails. Tiny tongues of fire licked at my feet as old women in rags threw torches on the kerosene-soaked heart-of-pine kindling surrounding me. Wesley stood in a corner with his back to me.
“Ah—uh—them,” I stuttered.
“Yes, Colin?” teased Old Lady Blackwall.
“Uh—I—I done them by—by tracin’. Yes’m, that’s it. Tracin’. Just helping out Mrs. Simmons. She wanted some stuff for the kids.”
“Tracing? Now, it didn’t look like tracing to me. Megan, why don’t you bring me your Blue Horse tablet and let me see what’s in it? I’m sure there must be something in it that could help us solve this little mystery.”
Old Lady Blackwall’s investigation revealed drawings of three dogs and one Persian cat, unmistakably committed in my hand. She pinned the drawings to the bulletin board with great theatrics, slicing open the wounds both Megan and I had suffered by describing each drawing with deadly cynicism. There was nothing to do but die and take my chances. I held my breath, thinking I would faint. Splotches of purple danced and ping-ponged behind my eyes, but I could not pass out. Some mechanism in my body forced me to breathe.
The recess bell finally rang and the classroom erupted in giggles and snickering. Except for the members of Our Side; they were absolutely silent. The Highway 17 Gang danced happily out of the room, and Paul walked over to me.
“I reckon you better meet us down at the new ground,” he said, his voice chilled with hate.
“Leave me alone.”
“You be there,” warned Paul.
Old Lady Blackwall stopped the exchange.
“Paul, you and the others clear on out. I want to talk to Megan and Colin for a minute. Go on, now. Scat.”